The Duke of Debt Read online

  “I am quite sure that you are right.” She held his gaze. “In truth, I meant no offense, my lord. I honor anyone who has fought for our nation.”

  He sighed. “And there you go again, Miss Blackthorn, disarming me with your honesty.”

  “It is my one besetting sin,” Margaret admitted somewhat grudgingly. “I am rather stubborn, but I have learned to at least be willing to admit I might be wrong.”

  “Which is far more than most members of our society ever accomplish.” His smile was warmer this time, meant to invite her confidence rather than set her at a distance. “And I do appreciate your willingness to acknowledge fault.”

  “Ah, there you are, Alistair.” Captain Grafton came up to his friend and patted him gently on the shoulder. “Good evening, Miss Blackthorn.”

  “Good evening.” Glad of the opportunity to stop looking at the infuriating marquess, Margaret curtsied to her host. “Thank you for inviting me, sir.”

  “My sister-in-law is very fond of you,” Captain Grafton replied. “And, as it is her birthday today, she chose the guests.”

  “That makes it sound as if you don’t welcome Miss Blackthorn for herself, Francis. Surely that’s not what you intended to say?”

  Margaret blinked as Lord Hellion expressed exactly what she’d felt about Captain Grafton’s offhand comment. There was an edge to the marquess’s voice she hadn’t heard before.

  “I apologize for my lamentable manners.” Captain Grafton bowed to Margaret. “Alistair is quite right to correct me. Sometimes I open my mouth before I have considered the consequences of my words. You are, of course, most welcome here in your own right, Miss Blackthorn.”

  “Thank you.” Margaret bobbed another curtsey as her host turned away.

  “He didn’t mean it,” the marquess said quietly.

  “Even if he did, you didn’t have to leap in and defend me,” Margaret retorted. “I am well aware that men such as Viscount Grafton and… yourself consider us beneath them.”

  “Beneath me?” A smile hovered on the marquess’s lips, and Margaret felt her cheeks redden. “Well, as to that—”

  “Don’t you dare.” She pointed her closed fan at his wickedly smiling face, spun on her heel, and marched away, his soft laughter following her.

  He was infuriating! How was she supposed to deal with a man who contained not one serious bone in his body? Who thought that everything was a joke? Margaret snapped open her fan and went to stand by the French windows that opened out onto the terrace. Yet, he’d stood up for her and had taken her attempts to set him in his place with good heart.

  She fanned herself and let out a slow breath. It wasn’t like her to allow a man to annoy her. In truth, most gentlemen were somewhat scared of her, and quite frankly, she preferred it like that.

  The butler announced that dinner was served. Margaret turned back to the other guests and proceeded toward the door where her hostess smiled and gestured to the man standing beside her.

  “Lord Hellion will be your dinner partner, Margaret.”

  Of course. With a resigned sign, she placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. He might be her designated partner, but that didn’t mean she had to speak to him more than common politeness demanded.

  After enjoying a glass of port with the gentlemen, Alistair went into the drawing room and found Miss Blackthorn walking out on the terrace alone. He paused to admire her upright carriage and the queenly curve of her neck. She was nothing like the ladies he was used to dealing with. She met him toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, and didn’t simper or sigh. It was both refreshing and disturbing.

  He strolled toward her, the cigarillo he’d lit held between his fingers. “Are you going to keep this up all night?”

  She turned her rather fine brown gaze on him. “What?”

  “Ignoring me.” He strolled over to her side.

  “I am not—”

  “You barely spoke a dozen words to me at dinner.”

  “Maybe that was because I had nothing I wished to say to you.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Have you considered that?”

  “Well, no,” he acknowledged. “Because I have already noted that you are a woman who prides herself on speaking her mind.”

  She stared at him for a long while. “You are incorrigible.”

  “Guilty.” He inclined his head a respectful inch. “Perhaps you could explain exactly what you find so objectionable about me?”

  He wasn’t sure why he wanted to know, but something about her obvious dislike for him rankled.

  “I believe we have already discussed this.” She raised her chin. “You exemplify everything I dislike in a man of privilege.”

  “So, in a nutshell, you dislike me for the accident of my birth? Something I had no control over? How very… unchristian of you.”

  “It is not that—it’s your arrogance, your air of being better than everyone else around you—”

  He cut through her words. “Are you sure this isn’t more about your lack of confidence in such surroundings?”

  “What?” Her eyes flashed fire.

  “Perhaps your sense of inadequacy makes you see an insult where none is offered or intended?”

  She closed her mouth and then shook her head. “There is no point in arguing with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you—” She half turned away from him and walked to the very edge of the stone flagstones that bordered the garden.

  He extinguished his cigarillo and followed her into the shadows. “Because I what? Won’t behave as you wish? Won’t conform to those ridiculous notions you have of how the aristocracy have ruined everything?”

  She spun around to face him. “Because you confuse me.” She looked up into his eyes. “Because I don’t know what to do with you.”

  “As to the last, I can give you a few suggestions,” Alistair said encouragingly. “Perhaps you might ask me to kiss you?”

  “That’s not—”

  “Are you sure? Because I know I would very much like to kiss you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because to be honest, Miss Blackthorn,” he said with a shrug, “I’ll be damned if I know what to do with you, either.”

  Chapter 2

  Alistair was still thinking about that non-kiss a week later when he woke up encased in damp sheets at his grandfather’s house to a sullen, smoldering fire and a rainstorm. He sneezed as he sat up and wondered if he was about to come down with a cold. Francis was on the verge of rebelling and returning home without him, but Alistair didn’t want to leave until his awful cousin Farrell arrived. He’d allowed his stepmother to prevent him from being at his own father’s deathbed, and he was foolishly reluctant to leave his grandfather alone with just his womenfolk around him on his.

  Cousin Lilly had been correct that the current duke’s health was declining far more rapidly than he’d been told. Alistair had spoken to his physician, who had confirmed his worst fears. He’d sent messengers down to London to alert his cousin to return immediately.

  “Morning my lord.” Clarkson, his valet came in, bringing a welcome pot of coffee. “Have you decided when we are leaving this godforsaken place?”

  “We’ll go when I’m good and ready.” Alistair got out of bed and knelt to attend the sullen fire. “And don’t be rude to your betters.”

  Clarkson sniffed as he set down the tray. “Can’t see no betters ‘ere, guv.”

  Alistair straightened up and dusted off his hands. “Have you forgotten that I pay your wages?”

  “You call that pittance wages?” Clarkson went back to the door and retrieved a jug of hot water and Alistair’s shaving equipment. “I could earn better if I went back to boxing.”

  “Then, don’t let me stop you.” Alistair pulled on his shirt and breeches, shivering in the cold, and sat down to put on his woolen stockings. He’d met Arthur Clarkson at a prizefight in London after he’d been knocked unconscious and had offered him a job. “In truth, I’d quite enjoy seeing you get your face
smashed in again.”

  “Like that would happen.” Clarkson poured water into the basin. “That last time was a fluke, and you know it. Not that I’m not grateful for you letting me recover at your house.” He wrapped a cloth around Alistair’s throat. “Now sit back, and keep your clever remarks to yourself while I shave you, or I might accidentally slit your throat.”

  An hour later, suitably attired and shaved to perfection, Alistair descended the drafty stairs and went through into the breakfast room where a gaggle of his impoverished female relations were having breakfast. As usual, there was no sign of Francis, who had taken one appalled look at the ladies on the morning of their arrival and decided to take his breakfast in bed.

  “Cousin Alistair!”

  Lilly patted the seat next to hers. After collecting his porridge and a spoon, Alistair joined her. She wasn’t technically his cousin, as she was the granddaughter of one of his grandfather’s nieces. She’d come to live at the house as a child after her parents’ death, and was the closest in age to him.

  His family hadn’t visited the duke often because the old man was not only a recluse, but also a miserable old sod who made everyone around him feel inadequate. Alistair only paid a yearly visit out of familial duty, because his cousin appeared to have none.

  “Have you heard anything from Farrell yet?” Lilly inquired.

  “Not a thing.” Alistair helped himself to the appalling coffee. “I hope he is on his way and has no time to write to us.”

  His cousin was probably passed out drunk in a whorehouse, but Lilly didn’t need to know such details.

  “I don’t think the duke is going to live for much longer, so he’d better be quick.”

  “Amen to that.” Alistair added cream to his porridge, which at least made it palatable. “As soon as he arrives, I intend to leave.”

  “Why?” Lilly frowned. “You are one of the very few people Farrell listens to.”

  “Only when he wants to borrow money from me,” Alistair said. “I’d rather not be around in case I give in to my desire to knock some sense into him.”

  “I’d love to see that.” Lilly smiled at him. “Farrell isn’t a nice man at all.”

  “You are correct.” Alistair held her gaze. “I’d recommend that you keep away from him, especially when he’s drunk.”

  “I already know that.” She shivered. “Last time he was here, he tried to grab me. I barely got away from him.”

  Alistair set down his cup. “If he touches you again—”

  She patted his arm. “He won’t. He thinks I’m an old maid long past her prayers.”

  “As I said. He’s a fool.”

  A noise in the hall beyond the breakfast room attracted his attention. He looked toward the door where the butler was just entering.

  “Who has arrived?”

  “The Earl of Haralson, my lord.” The butler bowed.

  Alistair finished his coffee and stood up. Finally, his cousin Farrell had come home.

  Unfortunately, Farrell had chosen to bring two of his closest friends with him to the house where his grandfather lay dying. Alistair and Francis watched with increasing distaste as the three young men drank their way through dinner, scared off all the ladies, and kept drinking in the duke’s study.

  The only reason he and Francis were still there was because Alistair needed to speak to his cousin before he left. So far, extracting him from his boisterous companions had proved impossible. Alistair was just beginning to contemplate grabbing hold of his cousin and maneuvering him out of the room when Francis spoke quietly in his ear.

  “Bottomly is about to pass out. I think I can get him to leave along with Pritchard.”

  “Thank you,” Alistair murmured. “If you can accomplish that, I will be forever in your debt.”

  Francis nodded and walked over to where the younger of the two men who had accompanied Farrell was attempting to open a window.

  “No need to despoil the flowerbeds, lad,” Francis said in his best sergeant-at-arms voice. “Let me show you a better place to throw up your accounts.” He grabbed hold of the drunk’s shoulder, pivoted him around, and marched him out of the room. Alistair had forgotten that Francis owned at least one Millcastle inn and was probably more accomplished at dealing with drunks than most peers of the realm.

  Alistair focused on Pritchard, who was the heir to an ancient, wealthy earldom, yet seemed intent on pissing and gambling his fortune away as fast as possible.

  “Perhaps you might follow Captain Grafton and make sure your friend is all right?”

  Pritchard didn’t like him, but he was far too drunk to do anything about it.

  “What’s it to you?” Pritchard slurred.

  “Well, we all know that Grafton isn’t exactly a gentleman and can be quite unpredictable,” Alistair said gently. “You wouldn’t want him losing his temper with Bottomly, would you?”

  Pritchard’s gaze narrowed, but he went out through the door Alistair had conveniently opened for him. Alistair shut it and turned to his cousin, who was slouched in the chair behind the desk. He hadn’t seen Farrell for almost a year, and the signs of dissipation on his bloated face had worsened considerably.

  “Do you intend to stay here at Hellsdown Park until grandfather dies?” Alistair asked.

  “What?” Farrell belched loudly and drank from the bottle of port at his elbow.

  “I said do you intend to stay here until our grandfather dies.” Alistair went over to the desk and looked down at his cousin.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing.” Alistair kept his tone polite. There was very little point in enraging a drunk. “I intend to return home, myself.”

  “Liar. You came here to try and steal the title from under my nose.”

  “As the title is hereditary, that is complete nonsense. I came because Cousin Lilly couldn’t contact you and was concerned that no one from the immediate family would be here if our grandfather passed away.”

  “She’s a stupid bitch.” Farrell gulped more port. “When I’m the duke, I’m going to kick out all these parasites who live here.”

  “And where exactly do you expect them to go?” Alistair’s patience was wearing thin. “The workhouse?”

  “Why not? My grandfather only put up with them because his father did.”

  “It’s called having a sense of family duty,” Alistair snapped. “Something you appear to lack.”

  Farrell laughed as he upended the bottle and finished the contents, the purple of the liquid staining his lips and linen. “I don’t care about any of that. You only care because that’s all you have.”

  “Quite possibly,” Alistair acknowledged the hit.

  “Your own father didn’t like you,” Farrell continued. “He thought you were tupping his new wife.”

  Alistair went still. “Whoever told you that canard?” He dropped the bottle with a crash onto the floor.

  “Grandfather.” Farrell shrugged. “Don’t know where he heard it, but it’s funny as hell.”

  “Not to me.” Alistair glanced back at the locked door. “Our grandfather is likely to die in the next day or so. Will you remain here to officiate at his death and burial?”

  “I’ll stay here long enough to make sure he’s dead, and the will is read, yes.”

  “Excellent.” Alistair nodded and went to open the door. “Perhaps you would let me know when the funeral will be so that I can come and pay my respects?”

  Francis came in, his wary gaze moving between Alistair and Farrell, who was attempting to rise from his seat.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Alistair nodded. “Farrell intends to stay with his grandfather.”

  “Good. That means we can leave,” Francis said.

  Farrell finally got up and lurched over to the fireplace. He held onto the mantel as he fought to find his balance.

  “Remembered something else about you.”

  “Goodnight, cousin.” Alistair turned toward the door. />
  “Your father thinks you’re a bastard.”

  “My father is dead and you’re drunk.” Alistair spun around. “Perhaps you should keep such foulness to yourself?”

  “Don’t like it, do you?” Farrell grinned at him, one finger pointed tauntingly at Alistair’s face. “Being called a bastard.”

  Francis grabbed hold of Alistair’s arm. “Ignore him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, and he won’t remember a thing in the morning.”

  “Oh, I’ll remember.” Farrell slowly tapped his forehead. “I don’t forget anything useful.”

  Alistair shook off Francis’s hand and squared up to his cousin. Farrell took an unsteady step back and grabbed the poker. He pointed it waveringly in Alistair’s face.

  “Stay where you are!”

  “You couldn’t hit me even if you were sober,” Alistair said dismissively. “Now put that thing down and go to bed, you bloody great fool.”

  “Damn you to hell and back!” Farrell lurched forward, grazing Alistair’s cheek with the tip of the poker. As Alistair recoiled, Farrell overreached, collided with the coalscuttle, and went down like a felled deer.

  “Good Lord. I didn’t even touch him,” Alistair scoffed.

  Francis pushed past Alistair. “What a buffoon.” He went down on one knee and took out his handkerchief to attend to the blood seeping out of Farrell’s skull.

  “Wake up, you fool.” Francis shook Farrell’s shoulder and then frowned down at him. “I think he hit his head on the corner of the fireplace.” He looked up at Alistair, who had remained frozen in place. “May I suggest you fetch one of the duke’s many doctors so that they can attend to this fool and earn their wages for once?”

  Alistair turned and ran through the door, shoving Pritchard, who was coming toward him, out of his way. Pritchard yelled something foul at him, but Alistair didn’t stop. He descended the stairs into the kitchen, where he knew one of the three ducal physicians would be napping in the butler’s apartment.

  “Dr. Nettles?” Alistair didn’t bother to lower his voice as he entered the room. “Can you come and attend to my cousin? He’s fallen down drunk and banged his head.”